


As the crow flies

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Invested [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A crow for the aesthetic, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Death and Taxes, Gen, M/M, Old Marrieds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-27 07:49:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13876431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: The only things that Celebrimbor can count on are death, taxes, and his uncle coming to help with one of the two.





	As the crow flies

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. All glory to @moringottos and @thulimo, who started this with talk of a Caranthir who survived the first age to do his nephew’s taxes! …I couldn’t help but drag another survivor out with him.

He came every spring, like the migrating geese.

Like the carrion crows, said some of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and shuddered as they spoke, but Celebrimbor was always happy to see him.

Even if he  _did_  carry a carrion crow on his shoulder for ironic effect.

He came from the east; craggy and battle-scarred, lines around his eyes and across his knuckles. He came with the streak of silver in his coarse black hair and the names of his lost brothers held tight behind his teeth  He came because the wheel of the world churned on, and the only reliable thing in it were death and taxes.

Death he’d escaped, taxes he had no desire to.

“Caranthir,” said Celebrimbor, striding into the hall to greet his uncle with a warm hug. “It is good to see you!”

“Always glad to be able to rescue you from inevitable bankruptcy,” said Caranthir, pulling free of the embrace. His tone held no edge however and his black eyes sparked with something like pleasure as they lit on Celebrimbor’s face. “You’re gotten fatter.”

“Dwarven winter fare,” said Celebrimbor, patting his middle and eying his uncle’s lean form. “It looks as if you are in need of some yourself, I shall make sure the kitchens are alerted.”

“We would like that.” Caranthir glanced over his shoulder as the door opened again and his companion slipped in from handing off the horses to the hostler. His harsh face went soft as the hunched, golden-haired figure made its way across the hall. Celebrimbor held out his hands, his own expression very tender, and Finrod smiled his crooked, ravaged smile as he accepted them.

“Welcome,” said Celebrimbor, and Finrod nodded. His voice had not been entirely robbed from him by the teeth of the wolf but it was rasping and low, practically a wolf’s growl itself, and Finrod chose not to use it much. What was left of his golden hair was covered by a scarf wrapped around his head; a scarf of blue and green and woven by a gifted hand. Caranthir’s fingers closed gently around his husband’s elbow as he guided him towards the fire and Celebrimbor signaled for wine to be brought.

Caranthir had never been one for small talk but Celebrimbor and Finrod had much to catch up on, and their hands flew in the finger cipher that Finrod used and Celebrimbor had raptly learned during their last visit.

“It was not that large,” grunted Caranthir, as Finrod spread his hands expressively and Celebrimbor gasped. “It was a mid-range shark at best; you are a fool for drama, Ingo.”

Finrod flicked him in the ear and Celebrimbor leaned forward, eager. “So then what did the pirates do?”

“Cheated me out of my commission,” said Caranthir aggrievedly and Celebrimbor flicked him in the ear as well.

“Hush, he tells it better.”

Finrod smiled, beautiful despite the missing teeth, and continued the tale.

 

* * *

 

They lay together in the bed Celebrimbor’s people had provided; a stout cedar headboard at their crowns and a thick eiderdown over their bare feet.

Finrod rested his head on Caranthir’s shoulder, his fingers dancing over his husband’s chest.

“I know,” mumbled Caranthir. “It’s almost uncanny comfortable after six months of the road.”

Finrod grinned and said something in fingertip against Caranthir’s clavicle.

“No,” said Caranthir. “I do  _not_  want to lie on the floor for old time’s sake. Now hush, I need good sleep if I’m going to dig through Tyelpe’s accounts all day tomorrow. They’re not as bad as yours were but it’s a near thing.” He scratched his nose and stared pensively at the ceiling. “He’s done a decent job here though, that boy. Made a good place for himself.”

Finrod buried his face in Caranthir’s neck and Caranthir stroked his hair absently, with light fingers so he didn’t pull.

“You’re right,” he said, his eyes closing as Finrod’s sentence trailed out against his breast. “His father would be proud.”

 

* * *

 

They departed three days later as they’d arrived; wrapped in travel-worn but intricate cloaks; a ruffle-shouldered crow croaking reprimands to the sky.

They departed with Celebrimbor’s accounts in order, the Gwaith-i-Mírdain thoroughly chastened on their financial practices, and all of Eregion more than a little in love with the wind-fingered once-king who spoke in gesture and smiled with torn canines.

Celebrimbor, whose heart was a soft as his arms were strong, wept a little at their leaving. Finrod promised to write. Caranthir made no such promises.

 

* * *

 

As they rode out, they passed a fair and beautiful stranger, dressed all in gold, riding for the gates of Eregion. There was something strange about his eyes, and how the horse shied beneath him.

Finrod reined in his own horse, panting slightly, his pupils gone thin. Caranthir turned, his eyes narrowed as the crow cried murder on his shoulder.

“On second thought,” he said as Finrod growled low in his throat, “I think our nephew could manage us staying another couple days, don’t you?”


End file.
